


Warm Blood

by carlyraejepsen



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Banter, Basically? A Good Time, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carlyraejepsen/pseuds/carlyraejepsen
Summary: Ever since they were kids, they’ve been at the same standoff: one of them always wants what the other has.





	Warm Blood

The walk seems to be lasting an eternity. Dusk falls calm and amber about the wooded plain, spots of gold peeking down through the trees; as the sun sets, Tobin and Gray continue to talk, their voices hushed, jumping from subject to subject to keep themselves from going insane with boredom and fatigue. They’ve been running their mouths since the afternoon, since Alm had told the two of them to go and find where Berkut and his men were patrolling. After a brief skirmish with some Rigelian cavaliers, they’ve still yet to find any sign of a larger group.

“Hey, what’s the deal with Alm, anyway?” Gray asks, dragging his sword behind him in the foliage, whacking lazily at any brambles or bushes in their path. His right arm hangs in an improvised sling fashioned out of his tunic, his breastplate, and one of his belts— a blunt blow from a cavalier’s lance had bent Gray’s elbow back at an angle that almost made Tobin throw up just looking at it, and the two frantically fixed it up as best as they could, cursing themselves for not bringing Silque along with them. Gray’s left in only his black undershirt.

He almost wants to ask if he’s going to be warm enough, but he forces himself to snap back to real life, briefly considering the vague question. “A lot of things. What’re we talking about here?”

“How girls are always thirsting after him like he’s Mila’s gift to earth.”

He grunts annoyedly. “He literally _is_ Mila’s gift to earth. Remember? The weird birthmark and everything?”

“Okay, fair enough, there’s the whole ‘chosen one’ deal— I think it’s a load of bull, honestly— but it can’t be _just_ that.” He absentmindedly swings his sword back against the trunk of a tree as they pass it, sending chips of bark flying onto the leafy ground. He’s gotten a lot stronger since they’ve left. “Do you think if I just draw an X on the back of my hand and start making shitty puns, Faye and Clair’ll just throw themselves at me?”

Tobin snickers at the thought. “You’ll have to dye your hair green, too.”

“I’m gonna have to pass on that one. Trust me, I know what a cute guy looks like. Alm’s, like, a six out of ten at _best_. I just don’t get the appeal.”

"What does a cute guy look like?”

“Like you,” Gray offers, sluggishly waving his sword at his feet like it’s obvious, and Tobin just starts laughing harder. “I’m serious! We all know you’re stupid as a bag of rocks, but on the _outside_? Pretty as a picture. The middle-part, the eyes, the dumb little popped collar— I mean, I’d give you an eight, at the very least.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Tobin says.

“A dumbass with a heart of gold,” he replies simply, giving him a crooked smirk, his tired eyes still glinting in the speckles of setting sunlight. There’s a beat there as they trudge along, nothing but crunching leaves and calling birds and the rattling of Tobin’s arrows in his quiver. “Y’know, if there was a way for the two of us to combine into one guy, we’d be the full package. Looks _and_ personality.”

“Sure,” Tobin muses, then stops in his tracks. There’s a clearing a few meters ahead with a small brick building in the center, weathered and gray, a stout chimney rising out of a worn roof with clay shingles scattered and crumbling. He feels his heart jump, starts to reach back for his bow.

“You think maybe a mage can pull off something like that? Like, some kind of fusion spell? Maybe we can tug on ol’ Kliff’s ear, I dunno—”

Without looking away, Tobin breathes, “Shut the hell up.”

Gray scoffs offendedly, his slinged hand pressing against his chest as if he’d been shot in the heart. At least he can still move his hand. “Damn, Tobes, that’s _cold_. I was just suggesting—”

“You idiot— look,” he takes out his bow, nocks an arrow and motions towards the odd structure. Gray’s eyes go wide, and he nods in understanding. “Go in front of me.”

“Aw, what? How come _I_ have to go in front? I’m _huuurt,”_ he whines childishly.

“I _know_ you’re hurt, but you’re the one with the _sword_ , asshat, I can’t just— just _go,_ ” he hisses, and Gray rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright,” he whispers, accepting defeat and holding his blade out in front of him. The two slowly make their way through the trees and across the clearing, pausing every time a twig snaps too loud. They press their backs to the gray brick wall when they get to the building, and they shuffle against it until the corner turns and they find a small closed wooden door. Tobin feels his pulse pound in his ears, takes a deep breath, draws back the arrow until his arm starts to shake, looks at Gray and jerks his head to the side, signaling for him to go in— Gray kicks it open with a deafening _bang,_ and Tobin lunges into the doorway after he barrels in—

There’s nobody here.

“... Huh,” says Gray, sheathing his sword, and it’s suddenly very quiet again.

Tobin lowers his bow as he looks around, carefully slackening the string and sticking the arrow back in his quiver. It must be a fort of some kind, but it almost looks like a cozy one-room house like the ones they had back in Ram. He can barely see anything, the only source of light being the dusk from outside the door, but he can make out a few homey elements— a wooden table with short stools and a dish of stout candles, a tall and cluttered bookshelf, even a few thin bedrolls and blankets near the door. It smells like parchment and smoke and, strangely, oranges.

“I can barely see anything,” Tobin mutters. “Told you we should've brought a mage like Alm said. We should’ve brought _everybody._ This blows.”

“Since when do _you_ care about what Alm says? Fuck a mage, I can just—”

Gray dashes over to the table, quickly stubbing his foot on a box of something and falling smack onto the stone floor with a loud curse, sending round objects rolling across the dark expanse. Tobin immediately busts out laughing at the sight of Gray sprawled out on the ground, and he’s soon cackling so hard that he’s clutching his stomach; Gray grabs the table to pick himself up with a grimace, and the side of his cheek is covered in dark soot, and Tobin laughs even harder. “Go to hell,” Gray jeers, though he starts to laugh as well as he tries to brush the dust off his undershirt, off of his sling. Damn, now Tobin feels a little bad for laughing. He pulls one of the objects from the ground and lobs it at Tobin, snickering when it hits him heavily on his shoulder, knocking him back a step.

“ _Ow_ ,” he winces, his hand jumping to his shoulder as it starts to ache. “Screw you, dude— that’s totally gonna leave a bruise.”

“Aw, you poor baby,” Gray pouts, exaggeratedly rubbing his eye. “How are you gonna survive it? Is your bruise gonna make you lose full use of your dominant arm? Are you gonna have to walk for miles feeling like your entire forearm’s about to fall off your damn body? You sweet, innocent, tender child of Mila—”

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” Gray starts to laugh again, but Tobin still feels a pang of guilt. An orange rolls to his feet. He realizes that Gray had tripped on a crate of oranges. And that he had thrown a bigass _orange_ at him. Well, that explains the smell. “Is your… I-I mean, I know it’s not _okay_ , but like… is your arm okay?”

“I’m gonna be fine, Toby,” He grins, reaching his hand into the pouch hanging off the side of his still-equipped belt. “Now, allow me to spread some light on the subj— aw, _hell,_ ” His tone changes,  _“_ I’m an idiot.”

“What?”

Gray tosses two flint rocks disappointedly onto the table. “I was about to light these candles to prove that we didn’t need mages or nothing, and you were about to think I was the coolest guy on the continent, but I only have one hand. Well, I guess I could lean in real close and try it, but— no, no, that’s a fire hazard. Bad idea. Scratch that.”

“Gimme that,” says Tobin, grabbing the flint and striking the two together above a candle, flicking out white sparks until an orange flame leaps onto the wick; he pulls back before his fingertips can burn, lighting the others on the dish until a substantial amount of light fills the small room. He hands the stones back, meeting Gray’s too-tired eyes. “And hey, for the record?”

“Yeah?”  
  
He smiles, sincere and maybe a little too close. The two have kinda transcended personal space at this point in their friendship. “I’m never gonna think you’re cool. Not till the day I die.”

Gray grins, wide and charming as always, and he lays his hand on Tobin’s shoulder. “Fuck you, buddy,” he says fondly.

“Fuck you too,” Tobin replies, giving him a rough pat on the back.

Now, he can make out the entirety of the fort: a cluttered desk in the back left corner accompanied by a tall bookshelf, a rack of hanging leather canteens, a small fireplace filled with soot. The bedrolls are neat with thin, creaseless patchwork blankets. There are at least a dozen crates of oranges littered about the room, and yet there’s no reek of mold or decay.

“So, what’s the plan, Tobin-man?” Gray spins around and starts to wheel around the table, kicking at the spilled oranges. “Do we head back out?”  
  
“The sun’s going down, though,” he says. “And your arm’s in pretty rough shape, so I dunno.”  
  
“Excuses, excuses. What’s the matter? You too scared for a little late-night-woods action?” Gray wanders over to the far right corner— his eyes go wide, and he suddenly whistles and beckons him over.  
  
“First of all, I need you to never phrase it like that again,” he says, following him cautiously, “And second of all, the fruit here is super fresh, so if this place is for the military, it’s definitely still in use. We’ve got a better chance finding the bastard and his troops by staying here than by wandering around in the dark for them.”

He peers over Gray’s shoulder, shifting over as to not block the light from the candles, and he finds himself staring at what looks to be an array of steel weapons leaning against the junction of the walls. “Unless Rigelian families are super hardcore, I’m gonna say we’re _definitely_ in some military shit right here,” Gray muses, grabbing the staff of a lance and sorting through them one by one.

“Sweet. Anything we can use?”

“Lemme see here,” He squats down to get a closer look. “Lance… lance… lance… ‘nother lance… cool lance… broken lance... damnit, they’re all lances. We can’t do shit with lances. Thanks a lot, Mila.”

“Shut up, Gray, don’t blame _her_ for it,” he says, walking past the fireplace to the desk and bookshelf. He picks up a thick red book and skips to a page in the middle. The symbols look familiar, but it’s in some other foreign language. “Are you down for camping out here till daylight?”  
  
Gray sighs, lets the lances clatter to the hard floor. “Sure, whatever. Is there firewood anywhere? ‘Cause you _know_ I can’t sleep when it’s too cold.”

“Smoke would make it too obvious we’re here, so we can’t start a fire. And no sleeping either— for all we know, the troops only ducked out to hunt dinner or something. We have to stay ready for an attack.”  
  
“I hate it when you’re right,” he groans, and Tobin laughs to himself as he puts the book down on the desk, walks back over to the door and shuts it fully. His aching feet beg for him to sit down, but he knows that he’ll probably pass out the moment he’s not standing, so he opts to lean against the empty wall closest to the doorway instead. He takes off his quiver, props it up on a crate of oranges with his bow at arm’s reach. He grabs an orange while he’s at it, and then he lets his head fall back against the rough brick as he starts to peel it.

“How the hell are we supposed to stay awake for the whole night?”

“We could talk,” Tobin offers, throwing the rinds to the floor and taking a small bite of the fruit. It’s surprisingly sweet.

Gray plucks a canteen off the hanger, and he proceeds to hold it up and pour water directly onto his face, letting it run down his forehead and his cheeks and the front of his undershirt as he looks Tobin in the eye with a completely blank expression. It makes Tobin laugh so hard that he almost chokes on the orange, leaving him coughing and snorting like an idiot. “About what?” He asks plainly, his bangs and chin dripping wet, and Tobin has to hammer his fist to his chest and swallow.

“You are so damn _strange_ sometimes _,”_ he says in awe, and Gray just gives him a thumbs up, taking a swig from the canteen, screwing on the cap and making his way over to the bedrolls to pull up one of the quilted blankets. He dries his face and wipes his hands on it before tucking it under his arm. “We could talk about… how about we talk about everybody in the whole Deliverance? Like, we can say what we _really_ think about them. Since nobody else is here.”

He puts the blanket and the canteen down on the table, wiping off his undershirt and his sling, fidgeting a bit with the knot before unsheathing his sword and laying it on the table as well. He joins Tobin to his right on the wall. “I wear my heart on my sleeve, though,” Gray says. “Everybody already knows exactly what I think of them.”

“Well, _I_ don’t. And you don’t even _have_ sleeves.” There’s a pause. The candles flicker as a breeze drifts in from underneath the door. Tobin pulls out another piece of the orange, sucking the juice off of his fingers. His forearms are cold. He has no idea how Gray always goes around in sleeveless tunics. “So, uh… what do you think about… I dunno, Clive?”

“He’s beautiful,” he answers immediately, making Tobin sputter yet again. “I’d literally kill to look like him. He’s got Clair’s eyes— y’know how her eyes, like, draw you in forever? And you sorta feel like you’re drowning when you look at her for too long? Clive’s eyes are like that. He’s got that cute little beauty mark, too. I mean, the man’s banging _Mathilda_ for Mila’s sake, he’s _got_ to be some sort of god—”

“What, are you in _love_ with him or something?” Tobin laughs, the thought obscene in itself.

Gray just shakes his head, his lips bent in a half-grin. He pulls his headband down over his face to hang around his neck, combing his wet hair back out of his face, glistening black as coal in the candlelight. Tobin finds himself staring at Gray’s collar, at the criss-crosses of leather string between the cut in the neck of his shirt, at the gaps of still-damp copper skin underneath. He isn’t sure why he can’t seem to tear his eyes away— he’s got nearly the exact same lacing in his own shirt, and it’s never nearly this interesting on himself— and he _certainly_ doesn’t understand why his tongue starts to feel heavier in his mouth the more he looks. “He’s out of my league. I simply admire from afar.”

“C’mon, we both know that’s no excuse. _Everybody’s_ out of your league,” he says, though he isn’t completely sure if Gray’s joking, and it’s scaring him a little bit. “... What about Lukas?”

“ _Lukas_. He’s the… the redhead, right?” 

“... Yeah,” Tobin cocks an eyebrow. “Did you seriously forget his name? Dude. He’s, like, the only reason we got in this mess in the first place.”

“I know, I know— I’m good with faces and everything, but that one group always gets mixed up in my head when it comes to names. Him and the nihilist guy and the— the other one…”

“You mean Python—”

“Yeah, Python, and then that, that uppity guy with the green hair, I can’t think of his name… what was it, what was it…” Gray presses a finger over his lips in thought, then snaps in front of himself as he realizes, claiming assuredly— “Foreskin, right?”

It takes a moment, and then Tobin laughs so hard that his foot slips, pressing his entire weight against the wall to keep from keeling over. He presses one hand over his mouth to try to muffle himself, the other barely keeping hold of the orange, but it doesn’t really work, their peals of laughter bouncing off the close walls of the fort as Gray joins him— Gray loops his arm behind his neck to hold himself up on his shoulder, obviously just as close to losing balance.

“Damnit…” Tobin sighs, trying to catch his breath, finding that his eyes can barely stay open. They break into soft fits of chuckles as they attempt to calm themselves down, both of them suddenly in a delirious state where every bit of eye-contact is the funniest thing that’s ever happened. “It’s Forsyth, you— Gray, you fuckin’ idiot,” he chortles. “It’s _Forsyth._ ”

Gray looks up and goes, “ _Ohhh,”_ as if the world finally makes sense to him, and Tobin rests his giddy weight on Gray’s side, his bare arm surprisingly warm against the back of his neck.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for them to be quiet again, but soon enough, the only noise is the wind against the door, the rustling of leaves, the buzzing of the crickets that always come each Pegastym. Their chirping is surprisingly soothing; it reminds him of being young, of all of them running about on warm summer nights, catching fireflies in their hands and freeing them back into the sky. Kliff had always just sat and watched, though— he hated bugs.

Tobin realizes he’s about to fall asleep, so he pulls himself up slightly, starts to pick and eat at the orange again. “Hey, Gray?”

“Hey, Toboggin?” He replies drowsily.

“Y’know how I only joined the Deliverance to make money for my family?”

“Yeah. Greedy bastard.”

“Says the guy who only joined to get some tail. At least _I’m_ actually getting what I came for,” he states, and Gray picks his hand up from Tobin’s shoulder to flick his left ear. “Ow.”

“Stop slandering me and get to the point.”

“Well, uh… everything’s different now, huh? Like, everything’s going kind of crazy. We’re in a new place every night, stopping bandits, storming _castles,_ we’re… we’re fighting an entire country,” he says, as if he’s only realizing just now. “I mean, even right _now_ is crazy, isn’t it? We’re basically going off on our own to see if we can find the nephew of the Rigelian emperor so we can tell some green kid from Ram to go kick his ass.”

“I miss Ram,” Gray says out of nowhere, and there’s a pause as Tobin looks him over again. He always looks so relaxed and casual, cool no matter where he is. Tobin would give anything for that kind of thoughtless composure. His mind goes off on a tangent when he looks at him, once again pondering how on earth Gray thinks Tobin’s better-looking than him. Gray’s handsome by any standard, all dark and lean and muscular and prepossessing, his eyes a deep black-brown, his smile cutting and sharp _._ Tobin doesn't care about his appearance too much, but he often feels like he looks plain and forgettable. He wishes he looked how Gray looks.

Ever since they were kids, they’ve been at the same standoff: one of them always wants what the other has.

He takes another bite of the orange, lets the juice trickle down his glove. “... I miss Ram like hell,” he swallows. “That’s what I— that’s what I wanted to say, is— everything’s so weird lately, but when I’m with you, and we’re just talking about stupid stuff like this, I feel like… like I’m back in Ram. Well, not even _Ram_ , I guess— it more just feels like home. Like nothing’s changed, and we’re just hanging out the same as always.” Gray’s staring through him with that same blank expression, his hand flat on his shoulder. “Does that even make sense? Sorry if I’m not making sense, I only—”

His grip suddenly tightens, his arm curling around his neck, and Tobin finds his head turned close as Gray presses his mouth fast to his, leaning into him, kissing him, Gray is _kissing_ him, what the _hell_ , they’re _kissing_ , he’s so warm, Tobin’s suddenly paralyzed and the orange drops out of his hand but Gray isn’t stopping and he isn’t being gentle at _all—_ Gray’s kissing him like someone who knows how to kiss, like he’s fighting him, _daring_ him or something, pulling him closer and closer in his good arm and just barely letting his teeth graze his bottom lip and sticking his _tongue_ in Tobin’s mouth when his jaw drops in shock and he can’t _move—_

And then Gray pulls back, but he’s still too close to him, and Tobin still can’t move. And then Gray promptly turns the other way and spits onto the floor.

“What the hell,” warbles Tobin, who can’t move. His face burns like candlelight, and his legs are made of brick. Why did he do that? And more importantly, why in the name of the gods did it feel so _good_?

“You had, like, little bits of orange in your mouth,” Gray explains, and he scrapes his own tongue with his fingernails. “Like, the white things in ‘em, y’know? I hate those, so—”

“What the _hell,”_ he emphasizes, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar. “Why did you, why did you, why did you—”

“I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m homesick, my arm hurts like a bitch, I don’t wanna fall asleep, you’re nice-looking,” he lists off, and Tobin can hardly comprehend any of it. “I need a distraction. Plenty more reasons why. Seriously, what else do you want from me?”

“W-what I want from you is to know why you just decided to _kiss_ me out of fucking _nowhere_. I thought— I thought you liked _Clair,_ ” His voice cracks, heart hammering in his chest like it’ll bust out through his ribs.

“Yeah, I _do_ like Clair, and she’s been acting like she hates my damn guts lately. And I’m not getting any further with anybody _else_ , for that matter, so I’m kinda running low on options. You’re acting like this is crazier than it actually is.”

Tobin’s swimming mind slowly starts to put things together, and he’s dizzy out of nowhere. “You like guys,” he squeaks. “You like guys, don’t you? You do? What the hell.”

“Girls too, but yeah.”

“What the hell, what the hell,” he repeats, barely even registering the second part, just needs to ask it before he internally combusts: “Why _me?_ ”

“‘Cause I _trust_ you,” he repeats, and his arm unravels itself from around his shoulders and the friction against his neck makes his back stand so straight it almost gives him whiplash, “It’s not like I’ve ever _had_  a guy before. I trust you more than I trust anybody, so. Thought I’d try it out.”

“You… trust me?” He barely says, his voice failing him.

“Of course I do— I’d trust you with _anything,_  dipshit. You trust _me_ , right _?_ ”

Tobin’s hands shakily clench into fists, one still sticky. He barely has the chance to nod before he’s being kissed again, _twice_ as hard, and his arms seem to move to him on their own, fingertips tracing over his back through thin fabric of his undershirt, over the bulky knot of the sling. His palm presses flat against Tobin’s chest, and he closes his eyes and gives in, lets him lead and copies whatever he does, every movement messy and warm and surreal. 

Then Tobin pulls back and swallows— some awful part of his mind reminds him that he’d just swallowed some of Gray’s spit, so he takes a moment to try and shove that information as far back in his brain as possible— “Wh… why’d you do it _again_?” He still asks, huffing, warranting a breathy laugh from Gray.

“Why’d you put your arms around me?” He shoots back, and Tobin realizes that Gray is now in front of him. He’s taller than Tobin by practically a fraction of an inch— they’ve been that way for ages— and it might be more infuriating now than it’s ever been.

“... I was trying to push you away,” Tobin lies, pulling his hands back to his side like he’s standing at attention, trying to force any semblance of believability into his weak voice. Gray laughs again, and there’s no possible way his face could get any redder.

“Contrary to popular belief, this is is _not_ my first rodeo,” Gray says. “Believe me, I _know_ when somebody’s trying to push me away. When a girl I’m kissing doesn’t wanna be kissing me, I stop kissing her, ‘cause I’m not a despicable human being. I may be an _asshole_ , but I’m not a despicable human being.”

And that’s when Gray presses a gloved palm against Tobin’s cheek, clean and _impossibly_ warm, and his breath catches. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Gray’s voice is raspy and soft and _much_ nicer than he’s used to, “Like, you can tell when she’s not kissing you back. It’s like dead weight or something. It’s awful.”

Gray’s thumb brushes over his jaw how Clive does to Mathilda when he steals kisses and embarrasses her in front of the troops, and Tobin involuntarily makes this weird whimpering noise in the back of his throat that causes Gray to snicker and do it again and again, back and forth, pushing his hair out of his face.

“I-I wouldn’t know,” Tobin admits, his pulse jumping with every touch, “I’ve never… kissed before. Before now.”

It takes a second before Gray gasps, and his eyes light up, and Tobin regrets saying anything at all. “That was your— holy shit, Tobathan, that was your _first kiss?!”_

“Hey, a little louder, I don’t think people in Archanea heard you—”

“No, that’s incredible! I mean, here you are, a full-grown man of eighteen, pretty enough to get anyone you want, and yet you’ve never even— wow, you really _are_ a sweet, pure, innocent child of Mila, that’s _crazy_ —”

“Hand me your sword real quick, would you? I’ve just decided I wanna amputate your arm before it gets infected—”

“Jeez, now I just feel really special. Your _first_ kiss.” He pokes his cheek affectionately, and then his hand drifts down to hold the back of his neck. “Hey, aren’t you glad it was with someone you like?”

“I-I _don’t_ ,” Tobin stammers, “I don't like you like that. This is insane. You’re being insane right now. You’re my _friend_ , I don’t— I don’t think of you that way.”

Gray’s expression falls. He draws nearer, lets go of his neck, presses his hand against the wall behind them. Cornering him. The candles illuminate his silhouette, burning orange around his frame. Tobin finds that he still can’t meet his eye, so he looks anywhere else, at the toned junction of his bare arm and his shoulder, at the divots in his collar below his hanging headband, at the leather lacing of his shirt where his sight always seems to stick. None of it helps at all, and it _certainly_ doesn’t help when Gray decides to press his forehead to his and ask in a gentle voice that makes his hair stand straight on end, “You sure about that?”

Increasingly fixated, Tobin reaches out and tugs on one of the ends of string with a shaky hand, making the two sides of Gray’s shirt collar jump closer together. And then Tobin feels something go tight in his chest when he realizes why he can’t stop staring, freezing as he feels everything crash down on him like death, unfamiliar and terrifying.

“... Oh, _no_ ,” he whispers, and he sees the white glint of Gray’s teeth for a split second before he kisses him hard again.

He catches himself blindly kissing him back as he tries to cope with the blatant fact that he’s physically attracted to his closest companion on earth, that he’s felt that way for _months_ and had never even put it together. He’d thoroughly convinced himself that it was entirely normal to appraise the defined muscles in your friend’s arms while he fights, to spend nights thinking about the rich blackness of his eyes, to stare at the lace in his shirt until you forget to blink. He’d figured it was just regular thoughts that all friends had about each other. He’d figured it was _envy_. Tobin really _is_ a moron, isn’t he?

Of course, it’s hard to process any of it when he’s suddenly acutely aware of how _soft_ Gray’s lips are against his, even when his kisses are rough and reckless, his arm curling to let Tobin fall back against the wall, clinging tight around him, pulling at the back of his collar. It’s only once Gray lets off to breathe and Tobin catches a brief glimpse of his bow propped on the orange crate that he remembers just where they are and what’s going on, and he hurriedly asks, “What if, what if somebody comes back?”

“Then we’ll have to stop, won’t we?” Gray simply says, leans his torso in until their hips are flush, his hanging arm pressing into the bottom of Tobin’s ribcage. Tobin’s the one to kiss him this time, surprising both of them when he embraces Gray and sweeps a hand through his hair, soft and black and still wet in the front.

Gray _moans_ when he kisses him _,_ quiet and awful, and Tobin nearly chokes on his own tongue— or maybe it’s Gray’s tongue, he can’t even tell at this point— everything starts to go lucid and strange, and they fall into an odd rhythm where neither can tell who’s initiating, who’s leading, who wants it more. Tobin can’t bear to open his eyes through most of it, his face burning, throat drier than hell. The tangy smell of orange rapidly fades in the air, replaced by the scent of Gray’s skin, his sweat. He’s overwhelmed sooner than he can even believe— he dizzily wonders who Gray’s done this with already, and the mental image of him with a girl in his strong arms makes Tobin feel about a million contradicting emotions at once—

Gray’s hand starts to run down Tobin’s back, fingers tucking under the strap of his breastplate for a moment before gripping at his waist; Tobin shudders, holds him tighter, threads his fingers through his hair again and again like it’ll do anything at all. Gray stops kissing him only to hold his lips to his cheek instead, to the end of his jaw and up to the shell of his ear until he can hardly breathe, until everything is too strange to even attempt to make sense of.

And then he grinds his hips up against his, and Tobin’s suddenly never been more awake in his life. He makes this mortifying little sound, and of _course_ Gray laughs at it, hot against his ear— then he _repeats_ the motion again and again as he kisses him, sending hot sparks through his body that make his knees buckle and threaten to give out, digging his fingertips into Gray’s sides like claws.

“This is fucked up,” he says, huffing for breath as Gray buries his face in his neck, tugging the corner of his collar.

“Wanna stop?”

“ _Hell_ no,” he blurts out with no further thought, and that’s the end of that.

The moment his lips meet his neck, Tobin stops thinking altogether; it’s all been so rushed and clumsy and hot so far that the downright intimacy of the gesture flusters him even _more,_  leaning back on his heels as if he’ll melt through the wall behind him. Gray sighs and asks against his skin, “Tobone, how come your shirt goes down so low? S’like you _want_ people staring at your damned neck all the time or something. It’s frustrating as hell.” He punctuates it with another sharp thrust against him, and Tobin goes stiff, practically yanks the hair right off of Gray’s scalp. 

“Dude, i-it’s just my shirt, calm down,” he says scratchily, and then Gray starts to laugh right after he licks a stripe up his neck, harder and harder until he can feel his chest heaving. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’re so _hard_ ,” Gray says, grinning at him, “It’s adorable. You’re adorable.”

Tobin wants to die. He doesn’t want to stop, but he _certainly_ wants to die. “... How about you shut up, maybe?” He says— it comes out much less threatening than he’d intended, leaving Gray to give him another hard kiss, turning his head and biting at his lip in a weird way that makes his eyes go wide and his hands start to twitch—

That’s when Gray’s hand suddenly slinks all the way down to his hip and starts to rub at the side of his _thigh,_ and Tobin goes absolutely still for a second before shrinking back on the wall and asking, “What the hell are you doing?”

Gray backs off him and looks down, clicking his tongue, and Tobin’s arms snap right back to his sides. “See, I was gonna take your pants off, but you’re wearing overalls _,_ so I’m kinda stuck here—”

“You were gonna _what?”_

“Honestly, how am I supposed to get around that? I can’t take ‘em off at the top _myself_ , ‘cause, hey, I still only got one hand, but I really don’t have any other options—”

Tobin’s knees lock together, and he takes a second to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Gimme a second to comprehend this: the only thing holding you back from touching your _best friend_ ,” he breathes, “is a pair of _overalls_.”

“Yeah, man. What am I supposed to do, like, reach _under_ ‘em or something? Logistically, it just doesn’t make sense,” he says, totally straight-faced, taking his hand off his leg to fidget with the buckle on his chest.

He tents his fingers against his lips, at a complete and utter loss for several seconds. “There are no words.”

“There are _several_ words, actually, and they’re, ‘Hey, please rip my stupidass overalls off me, Gray, you hulking stud of a man’.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Tobin says, watches him grin that one smug grin when he starts to work at the leather straps; first, he unbuckles the one on his right, then shrugs his breastplate off his other shoulder to undo the left one. It doesn’t truly dawn on him that he’s completely letting all of this happen until the front flap of his overalls doubles over, and Gray hastily pulls down on it and kisses him again, kisses the corner of his mouth and the apple of his cheek as he reaches past the waistband of his cotton shorts—

Then he breaks apart, and he sees Gray lick the palm of his _glove_ before he wraps his hand around his cock. Tobin feels it in his entire body, feels his legs tense so hard he thinks they’ll shatter like ice. His eyes close, and he bites his lip, and it _still_ isn’t enough to shut everything out, so he tucks his chin into the junction of Gray’s neck and shoulder and holds him until his arms ache. “Gray holy _hell_ shouldn’t you— shouldn’t you, uh, take your gloves off? I don’t—”

“You don’t seem to mind,” Gray hums, far too close to his ear and _far_ too huskily, and the slick pull of his hand makes him fear that he’ll break the skin of his lip.

“No, I don’t mind, it’s only, what if you mess them up or something? I— oh, _gods_ , I dunno, I just think—”

And Gray responds, “You’re saying this like I’ve ever taken off my gloves before doing this to _myself_ before,” causing a gut reaction in Tobin that almost trips them both off their feet.

“That’s— that's so gross, that’s _disgusting,_ dude, fucking _ew,”_ He spits, but he doesn’t back away— he leans _into_ it, if anything, as the sound of Gray’s laughter is almost therapeutic at this point, and the sensation of someone else’s touch is making the air in his lungs feel around a thousand times heavier.

“Hey, hey, I always wash ‘em after, don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, but Tobin still makes a mental note never to let him put his hands on his face again. “Leather turns me on,” he murmurs after, trailing off, and Tobin chokes. “C’mon. I’m only human.”

“Okay, uh, that's more about you than I _ever_ needed to know. I-I think we officially know each other too well.”

“You think so? You really th— wait a second.” He suddenly takes his hand off, holding the side of his wrist to his length instead— Tobin can almost _feel_ his eyes on him, and he starts to stare up at the ceiling to try and distract himself. “I knew it. I knew it, I _knew_ it,” claims Gray, and Tobin starts to nudge his way back from his shoulder to the support of the wall.

“What?”

“I’m bigger.”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” he says instantly, having had this argument a million times off of nothing but pure speculation. “I call bullshit.”

 “No, I’m serious,” he snickers, “Look—” he starts to reach down for the waistband of his _own_ pants—

“Oh, fucking hell, I’m not looking,” Tobin blushes profusely at the obscene clicking of his belt-buckle, head tilted straight back to look at the wooden frame of the low roof, “I’m not gonna look, Gray, I swear. Gray, this is fucking insane, I honestly swear—”

“Aw, don’t be like that—”  
  
“I’m not looking.”

“C’mon, Tobes, quit being such a prude.”

Tobin inhales deep through his nose, taking a moment to mentally congratulate himself on having the patience to put up with Gray for all these years. He hesitantly glances down after a too-long pause, biting his tongue—

He looks back up almost _immediately,_ but it seems that the image is burned into his mind. Gray’s is definitely bigger than his, if only by a little, and he’s almost thankful that the argument’ll finally be over; it’s as dark as the rest of him, all stiff and thick in his grip, flushed and swollen at the tip.

“I know too much now. I know way too much. _Fuck,_ I know so much.”

“You never let me compare before,” he says, shrugging, and Tobin sees his arm keep moving and he looks at the ceiling again.

“‘Cause that’s _weird,_ ” he barks back. “Nobody does that.”

“ _Everybody_ does that. It’s literally normal.”

“No, they don’t.”

Gray then says, “Alm let me do it,” and it shuts Tobin up quick.

“... Well, I hope the two of you had fun.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.”

He leans in before he can even start to comprehend what the hell that means, spits in his palm and fits his hand around them  _both_ , and Tobin practically bites his own fucking tongue off.

“ _Gray_ ,” he groans, “Gray, what, the fuck, Gray, oh _gods_ that’s good what the hell Gray—”

“Always wanted to get you to say my name like that,” he whispers, and it’s cryptic enough to get Tobin to wheeze a laugh, gripping into his shoulder.

“Wasn’t even saying anything,” Tobin breathes. “I don't, I don’t even _know_ your name.”

“It’s your favorite color, baby,” he says smoothly, and the two start laughing at the old joke in the middle of it, wearing down the thick tension, laughing like it’s _nothing._

“Damn… have you ever ended up actually saying that to a girl?”

“Yeah, once. She slapped me for it.”

“Her loss,” Tobin says, and Gray breaks into a big crooked smile, eyes half-lidded, something almost endearing in the way he looks at him. He ducks his head in too quick to kiss him, and a damp lock of black hair falls in front of his eyes, like it always does when he takes off his headband. he sighs, tries to blow it back up to no avail.

“A little help?” He asks, already a bit hoarse, “I don't… I don’t exactly have any free hands,” he chuckles nervously, and the tension builds right back up.

Tobin nods, swallowing rough, pulse drumming in his throat. He brushes it back with numb fingertips, and Gray leans into his touch, his eyes more intense than he’d cared to remember.

 He doesn’t get the chance to pull his hand away before he’s lurching forward to kiss him, stroking them both in his grip, drawing a muffled gasp from Tobin, and he feels like his blood’s finally come to a boil, like he’s reached a height, that there’s no possible way this could get worse—

 That’s why it’s all the more shocking when Gray starts to rut his hips into him, and he’s _wrong_. “Keep it like that,” He turns to his ear and whispers, and he nods when his hand seizes up in his hair, nuzzling his hot face in Tobin’s neck, unsticking his stiff collar from his nape. “Yeah. I love that.”

Tobin can only comply, too flustered and compelled and flooded in conflicting feelings to do anything else. He suddenly wants this so badly that it _scares_ him, wants nothing more than to have Gray’s calloused hands on him with his strong arms wrapped around— well, for the moment, just his arm— and the thought brings him back to the fact that they're doing this while deliriously exhausted and disoriented in some Rigelian fort in the middle of nowhere, and then he has the stupid moral argument again in his mind—

 Tobin strokes his hair and kisses him to try and shut all the voices out, giving in to the feeling of slick leather on him, of _Gray_ on him, heat building in his stomach as he quickly loses breath, loses all feeling below his ankles as his muscles tense—

 Then Gray pulls back an inch, but his wrist doesn’t stop, and Tobin’s _painfully_ aware of it. “It, um… It hurts to look at you sometimes, y’know that?” He says all weakly, his face flushing deep. If that’s his idea of a compliment, then Tobin’s just learned why Gray’s still single.

“Wow,” he pants, “Am I that ugly?”

“Yeah.” They kiss, and their teeth clack, and Gray practically shoves his tongue down his throat, overenthusiastic and terrible and addicting. He ups his pace when he breaks with a curse. “You and your hideously silky hair, and— and your disgustingly perfect skin. It’s terrible. You’re the worst." He swallows. "I used to get jealous as hell. Wanted to look like you so damned bad. Wanted and wanted and _wanted,_ ” He rasps, and the word suddenly sounds so good on his tongue that Tobin wants to forget he’d ever heard it in the first place.

“Not— you don’t, uh, want to? Not anymore?” He asks, and it comes out sounding kind of narcissistic, so he gets it when Gray snickers quiet.

“Nah. Started wanting something else.”

“... And here we are,” he breathes.

“Here we are indeed.”

He strokes him harder in his grip right when he says it, and Tobin knows that there’s no way in _hell_ he’s gonna last much longer, not if it keeps up. His head falls back, and Gray starts to bite at his neck, at his collar, never hard and never enough to leave marks. His brows draw together, and he barely manages to pull him in and wheeze, “H-how long?”

“How long what?”

“Have you wanted this.” _Have you wanted me._

They’re pressed so close that the force of his arm on his chest almost keeps him from breathing, and Gray’s fist pulls so _fast_ around them that he can’t focus on him, on _anything_ , can only stare at the ceiling and try to keep himself upright. Gray laughs terribly, and in a strained whisper, he replies, “Longer than you wanna know. Trust me.”

“ _Gray—_ ” He shudders—

“You, you still trust me, don’t you?” And Tobin can hardly look at him, not even when his dark eyes shut and his thick lashes flutter, far too pretty for any man to look, too pretty for _words—_

Tobin comes like an absolute catastrophe, completely messing up Gray’s hair with one hand and gripping his back so hard he thinks he’ll tear his undershirt with the other, calling his name over and over and over until it hurts to speak, until his frame draws tight like a bowstring and he can't do anything at all. It only lasts for a second, and then he falls slack, sinking down on the wall, brick scraping the back of his head. Gray follows suit, moaning a drawn-out curse in his ear, and it might be the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

They’re both slumped about three-quarters of the way down the wall by the time they come back to their senses, nothing but ragged breathing and awkward avoidances of eye contact, subtle glances up and down and back up again. Everything feels sticky and disgusting. Neither can find anything to say to the other.

Gray eventually takes a moment to pry himself off and step back. Tobin takes a relieved gulp of air at the sudden absence of his bent arm, hands falling limp to his sides, but there still seems to be some sort of weight pressing down on his chest. He finds his mind is dizzy yet again as he’s hit with the waves of guilt that come alongside the revelation that he’s been lusting after his best friend for an absurdly long time. And apparently, it’d been _mutual_. When he thinks about it too hard, he starts to get a headache. 

“Hey,” Gray says out of nowhere, and Tobin looks anywhere else, fixing the thin hair out of the sides of his face. For a split moment, he wishes his hair was as thick and soft as Gray’s, but he determinedly quells the thought back down.

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“... C’mon,” he says, softer this time, and that’s all it takes for the weird longing in Tobin’s chest to get the best of him. He meets his eyes, and he’s taken aback by how _warm_ they seem all the sudden, the warmest shade of brown he’s ever seen. Gray looks like home. He’s only thing that feels like home anymore.

Hesitantly, starting and stopping himself a couple times, Tobin kisses his reddened lips. It isn’t frenzied or needy like all their other kisses, and it’s so soft and feather-light that it hardly even counts as anything at all. There's the faintest inkling in the back of his mind, one that tries to convince him that there’s something more here than an odd attraction. It makes his chest flutter, and the chaste kiss lasts for far too long.

When they part, the feeling fades enough for Tobin to be able to ignore it, and he can breathe normal again. Gray straightens up as Tobin finally sinks to the floor, his sore legs rejoicing as he gives in— his heart is beating too fast for him to even  _think_ about sleep, so he slouches on the wall and sits, sticking his feet out in front of him. Gray buckles his belt back up, stumbles back to the table and grabs the canteen, uncapping it and holding it between his shoulder and chin to pour over his hand. He then dries it on his shirt, haphazardly tossing the folded blanket at Tobin to clean himself off, which he does without a second thought.

There’s a sort of comfortable silence after that, Gray fixing his headband back up, Tobin readjusting the straps of his overalls. Gray takes a seat on Tobin’s left this time, passing him the canteen. He discards the blanket and drinks all that’s left of the cold water, desperate to get the taste of him out of his mouth before he loses his mind.

“Well,” Tobin swallows, clearing his throat. “That was… something.”

“It sure was.”

Another pause. He flicks away the half-eaten orange that he’d dropped, watches it roll pathetically by the doorway.

“... You probably feel pretty honored, huh?” Gray smiles, looking straight ahead.

“Why?”

"‘Cause you’re the hottest girl I’ve ever kissed,” he says, then starts laughing at himself, the same giddy tones as always.

Tobin snorts, shaking his head, playfully shoving hard into Gray’s side with his shoulder— Gray winces and inhales sharp through his teeth, holding his bent elbow, and Tobin then realizes that he’s a fucking idiot. “Oh, jeez, I’m _so_ sorry, man, I forgot—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he chuckles tiredly, running his hand over his upper arm. “I’m fine.”

Tobin reaches under his collar to scratch his neck, still sticking to his skin. He stares at the flickering candles until his eyes burn, and he sees black and blue imprints when he looks anywhere else.

“We... We can’t talk about this, okay?” he says, and his voice wavers. “We can’t— hey, can we please pretend this never happened?" No reply. "... Please?"

Gray takes a deep breath, lays his heavy head on Tobin’s shoulder. “I’ll never bring it up again as long as I live,” he lies.

And Tobin, being the idiot that he is, completely buys it.

The night drags on uneventfully. They have the occasional scattered conversation about somebody from the army just to make sure that the other’s awake. He’s pretty sure they hold hands at some point, and then they try to play it off as if they'd never made any kind of contact in the first place.

When the sun rises and they start to collect their things, Gray ends up taking an armful of useless lances because, in his words, he wants to “make a statement” to Berkut and his men. They’re both so stupidly tired that they end up forgetting a lot of what they say on the walk back to camp, but Tobin vividly remembers the feeling of fresh morning air on his face, the sight of sunlight striking the mist through the trees, tall-stretching shadows that make the forest seem enchanted, dream-like.

He only recalls snippets of their conversation, like him telling Gray, “If I end up calling that guy Foreskin on accident at any point when we get back, I’m slitting your throat in your sleep.”

Gray nods and says, “Sure, that’s fair,” dragging a comical amount of lances behind him in the foliage.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @botwzelink feel free to hmu with more fic ideas i'm Dying


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